


Heart of Stone

by Anonymous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, antiquity, or is it...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: And I wonder howyou saw through stone,the stone of my heart.How you carefully searchedfor the soft parthidden inside.
Relationships: Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Secret Admirers 2020





	Heart of Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillaelilz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/gifts).



> Just know that you can achieve _anything_ you set your mind to. 
> 
> And that you have created worlds that will stay with me forever.

There is a story, as old as time, of a sculptor who fell in love with his own creation. Pygmalion and Galatea were their names, they say. Their love fated, perfect and pure, sanctified by the goddess Aphrodite, who saw their longing for one another and could not watch them wither. 

But they never tell you how it felt for the Sculpture.

Cold indifference hewed away in giant blocks, discarded, because they are not a part of a being. 

Smaller lumps hammered off to form rough shapes. For the first time: edges. 

With it, definitions.

And questions. _What am I? What’s happening?_

Things are not where they once were and can anything ever _be_ , described by what it is not?

Perhaps it can. 

Then smaller fragments, sacrificed for the alignment of limbs and torso and the slight tilt of the head. 

For the first time, the Statue’s focus shifts from that which is _not_ , to what _is_ , covered, still, hidden, but _there_ , where before it flowed seamlessly into rough grain of no consequence. 

A sense of _self_ appears, settling comfortably into the stone. It’s like being covered in a thick plaster mold, the skin, a newly conceived concept, now itching to be revealed. 

The hammer works erratically, sometimes taking away whole sections in a day, sometimes barely a dull thud, prolonging the Statue’s entrapment. 

It learns patience then, for it can’t un-learn its edges anymore. 

But the work progresses, closer, ever closer to its true form, _yes, yes, make it so, take it off, take it all off!_

Until –

If it could hold its breath, it would. But it is not afforded such a luxury. 

They don’t tell you what it feels like when the chisel gets _really_ close to the skin, when edges are cleared and for the first time become _curves_ and _angles_ and _planes_. 

It’s like urging someone on to peel off a scab. 

They don’t tell you – because honestly, what words could there be to describe it – about the brilliance and pleasure of that first touch; of softness against the unyielding surface of the stone, shaped into flesh and revealed in the form of an elbow. 

Like with any new skin, it feels horribly raw, but absolutely necessary, and if the statue could cry out, it would. 

It doesn’t seem possible that there could be more, that every single inch should have to undergo such a treatment, that all of it would feel so – 

That it would _feel_.

Crumbs of dead material scraped off, chipped off, rubbed off and polished clear, infinitely fine, like peeling skin after a sunburn, removed by another’s hands, _up to here, up to here, this is me! ___

__They don’t tell you that the Master isn’t infallible, that sometimes the chisel cuts too deep, removes too much, that it leaves gauges, made to look right, shallow cuts and dips that can never be recovered._ _

__A sense of wrongness and a feeling not-yet-defined as pain, from a blade that so far only felt right and intimate and welcome, gliding over calves, thighs, muscled stomach, broad shoulders and exposed neck._ _

__But it’s too late now; it only knows how to crave the touch, exposure and attention of its Master, addicted to the act of its own creation and the inherent helplessness of trust placed in a pair of hands that are _beloved_. _ _

__It will be any form it is made into._ _

__(And if a blade was put to its chest and hammered deep, until it hollowed out all of its heart, if it struck harder still and continued to pound until it shattered into a million little pieces, it would only be sad, never angry or hateful._ _

__And it would still, probably, elate in its own destruction.)_ _

__Naked now. Naked in a way that humans can’t comprehend, down to its skin and shape and the absolute edges of its exposed existence, it stands proud and watches, with the eyes detailed to just short of individual eyelashes, as the blood drips from Master’s broken and dusty fingernails._ _

__Being._ _

__Existing._ _

__Craving._ _

__Uncertain what else could be done to it._ _

__They never tell you how it felt for the Master._ _

__A soft call of the stone, an itch in his fingers to rip it all open, to sink his tools deep and savage, until he gets to –_ _

__And then to press his forehead against it, carefully, tenderly, to cradle its shoulders and whisper in its ear:_ _

_Now you are free._

__He peels the layers like he’d take off clothes, his eyes studying, his hands worshiping each subtle shape and every new surface, his breath blowing off dust, as if it could cause goose bumps._ _

__It’s like a blossoming of a bruise from love’s attention all too eager._ _

__A conquest in slow motion, a victory torn out in the form of a figure, and a cry of satisfaction whispered like ‘hello’ on the morning after._ _

__They don’t tell you what it’s like to have served your purpose._ _

__To be able to stare at perfection, touch it, to know all its intimate contours, to have created and caressed every single last one of them –_ _

__But never to be allowed to _have_ it._ _

__He knows this stone as if it was an old friend, as if he only set free what was always meant to be his._ _

__And yet, it remains forever trapped, even in its fully revealed form, as if he only defined its chains._ _

__He regrets the smallest of things: that he chose but this one pose, that it denies him the knowledge of some inaccessible fragment of its anatomy or a different angle of its head._ _

__Midas had his golden touch, he has his carving tools._ _

__But he will never again match the brilliance of this one creation; so what reason might he have to pick them up again?_ _

__So instead he stares, helplessly captivated, as if his gaze could awaken bashfulness, a quickening of pulse, or a glance returned._ _

__He spends his days murmuring secret spells, all the ones that his heart has ever known, from the simplest stories of who he really is, to the deepest fears and the most mysterious cravings._ _

__He curls up close, for companionship, as if visiting the grave of a loved one; he falls asleep at its feet because he doesn’t want it to be alone._ _

__He doesn’t know, exactly, when his heart learns to beat only for this one ideal cursed into marble, as if it could teach it to perform its own contractions. Or when he starts to dream for the both of them – quiet, little things, that can never come to pass._ _

__Or how his soul comes up with a name and refuses to address it by anything else._ _

__His descent is slow but steady: it has taken millions of years for the stone to form and it will take millions more for it to crumble into dust, so he feels that he should at least try to match its pace._ _

__Before he too, disintegrates, leaving nothing behind but a memory of love: pure and simple._ _

__They don’t tell you what being summoned into life feels like._ _

__The faintest brush of lips: ashamed, unstoppable, fated._ _

__And yet, _chosen_ and gifted, with terrifying capacity to also be denied. _ _

__Warmth, never felt before, now spilling across the skin, soaking through the limbs and torso, thawing tissues, granting freedom, will and agency._ _

__Senses infused into flesh, exploding in a myriad of impulses, like the stars must have once exploded in the endless darkness of the skies._ _

__Closeness, more precious than all the treasure that ever existed, so incomprehensibly perfect that it will forever overpower any other aspect of this first moment._ _

__Life, flowing freely between them, shared and granted._ _

__Salt of tears._ _

__Transfusion of a breath._ _

__And a soul, eternal companion of that beloved one, identical but different, his, _theirs_ \- _ _

__Regained._ _

__“Aaah!” A gasp, an involuntary twitch of muscles and the Master sways dangerously, his set of steps disturbed. “F –“_ _

__He wraps his arms around this most precious of beings in an instinct that defines him, shifts a fraction, and helps him step directly onto the pedestal._ _

__“Kili,” the Statue whispers the name that comes to him out of nowhere and blossoms right across his heart._ _

__And then he sighs, leans in closer to conquer the last bit of distance between them and kisses him again, slower, deeper, like a greeting of the long-lost lovers._ _

__“Fili,” the Master stammers, low and familiar, and then laughs, right against the corner of those slowly curving lips._ _

__Somewhere, a goddess laughs alongside with him._ _

__They never tell you that the fated lover come to life from a stone was not a woman._ _

__That his eyes are blue like the sky in June; or that his shoulders, washed clean of the crumbled marble, reveal whole archipelagos of freckles._ _

__That he regularly makes them more pronounced, basking in the sun like a particularly contented cat, before presenting them expectantly for the blessings of his lover’s lips._ _

__That he hates doing laundry._ _

__That he’s a fiend for the spicy mustacciuoli cookies, those made by mothers on well-seasoned trays._ _

__That he barely moves in his sleep, but thankfully radiates enough warmth for several people, putting one alarmed heart at peace; that awake, he kicks apart the covers in the matters of moments._ _

__They never tell you that their names were never Pygmalion and Galatea, but Fili and Kili._ _

__The goddess was Yavanna._ _

__And the kingdom where it happened was not one of men, but dwarves, the only true masters of the stone._ _

__But then men have a way of twisting their tales, even those written by the destiny itself._ _


End file.
